


Painting Midnight

by ViridianJane



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragonlord Merlin, Intimacy, LIGHT body worship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 10:14:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViridianJane/pseuds/ViridianJane
Summary: The sun is low in the sky and coats the walls of their room in oranges and yellows but casts Merlin in the warmests of pinks, shining through the thin fabric and silhouetting his lithe figure, the skin of his shoulders glowing and warm and calling to Gwaine to reach out and touch.





	Painting Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VerdantMoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/gifts).



“I suppose it’s time I should get ready.”

Merlin stands near the balcony with his back to Gwaine, completely bare except for a sheet drooping low across his back, tucked into the curling runes inked in black on his arms. His hair is braided and tied high on his head, allowing Gwaine an unobstructed view. The sun is low in the sky and coats the walls of their room in oranges and yellows but casts Merlin in the warmests of pinks, shining through the thin fabric and silhouetting his lithe figure, the skin of his shoulders glowing and warm and calling to Gwaine to reach out and  _ touch _ . 

Merlin drops the sheet and walks to his dressing screen, where his breeches are folded over the top. He pulls them on, slowly enough that Gwaine knows he’s being teased, and Merlin turns to face him only to allow him a glimpse of the hair trailing below his navel before it’s hidden when leather laces are tied tightly and tucked into the waist. 

The breeches he wears for the dance are short, cut just below the knees, but with a long cuff; it leaves room for the yards of silk ribbons, attached at the seam under his knee. His bare feet make no sounds as he walks across the stone floor, and Gwaine can’t keep his eyes off of the silver silk and the way it makes his skin look like a clear river in the moonlight.

“Will you tie them for me?” Merlin asks when he stands before him, backlit and serene and unashamed. There’s a fading bruise on his ribs, just below his heart, that Gwaine had left a few nights past. 

Gwaine swallows and wonders why no thought had crossed his mind wondering why he so comfortably serves another man.  _ Since when have I submitted so easily? _

His lord smiles at him as if he heard his thoughts, amusement shining in his eyes. “Gwaine,” he laughs, “come here.”

Which, since Merlin is barely an arm’s-length away, would have been strange had it been said by anyone else. But Merlin has this ability to make Gwaine feel like when they’re together, they’ve created their own pocket of time and it’s a place Gwaine never wants to leave.   

The Festival of Dragons is held twice every year, on the days where sun and moon share the sky equally. Their Dragonlord will open the festival with a dance, which begins as soon as the sun kisses the horizon and ends when the last of the light fades from orange to violet to midnight, and the moon has taken her place among the stars. It is meant to celebrate balance and magic and wisdom. 

_ And beauty, _ Gwaine thinks, as he ties the fish-scale braid with the ribbons around Merlin’s calf, tightly and with practiced ease, weaving dragon scales onto his skin. He feels the flex of muscle and the fine hairs underneath his fingers, hears Merlin sigh.

_ And love,  _ he thinks, pressing his lips to the jut of his ankle, smooth and cool to the touch. 

Gwaine rises to fetch the black ceremonial tunic from its place spread neatly on the bed. Merlin’s expression is unreadable, but with a smile he lifts his arms to receive it and Gwaine helps it over Merlin’s head, careful to not get the decorative beading and bells on the hem caught or tangled; he listens to them chime as they swing around Merlin’s thighs and tries not to think of how they might sound with Merlin sat atop him, rolling his hips and fingers digging into his chest.

Next is the corset, and Gwaine's fingers tremble as he ties the laces following the line of Merlin’s spine; it's decoration only, not meant to shape or restrict, but the way it hugs his figure puts the image of writhing bodies and moonlit skin in his mind and the pounding of his heart feels more like the beating of a drum. Merlin peeks over his shoulder, and Gwaine hopes his expression doesn’t give him away.  

More ribbons are braided down his forearms to match the ones on his calves. The black ink of his tattoos tease him in flashes, peeking out and twining along his knuckles or slipping between slivers of silk. 

Gwaine takes Merlin by the hand to his dressing table, and Merlin drops onto the plush stool. The table is tidy if a little dusty, left unused as Merlin is not one to pay much attention to his looks.

But for the dance loose coal and a fresh mixture of indigo and beeswax is left for them, and while Merlin sighs, Gwaine feels a heat settle low in his gut, and a numbness in his toes. His heart pounds as Merlin’s lashes flutter, and he carefully and slowly lines his eyes, over and under and dragging it out on the sides, the blackness making his eyes so much larger, so much more intense and chilling, turning his gaze into power, beautified. 

Gwaine thinks of the Crystal Cave and how Merlin’s eyes are almost the same colour, and have just as much ability to drive him mad.

But Merlin blinks and his gaze shifts, and his eyes are alight with amusement and content once more. “How does it look, Sir Knight? Do I look like a dragon?” 

“Not quite yet, I’m afraid,” he smiles.

He tilts Merlin’s chin up towards him with a gentle nudge, and he follows easily. Gwaine fills the small brush with the paint and takes a moment to settle his shaking fingers before lifting and holding the brush up to Merlin’s lips. 

Merlin reaches up and wraps his fingers around Gwaine’s wrist, stopping him a breath away . “A kiss, first?” 

And without a thought Gwaine is pressing his lips to Merlin’s, slow and tender but overwhelming all the same, and when Gwaine pulls away his Lord’s lips are swollen and red like the setting sun. 

The mood shifts, and with a new kind of tension and focus Gwaine lifts the brush once more to his lips, and paints them midnight in a single stroke. While the redness of recent touch sparks warmth — and something like possessiveness — in his chest, the pristine darkness and intensity of the indigo makes him shiver with the thrill of  _ you can’t touch him, not yet.  _

Merlin smiles and stands, pulling and loosening the braid now that he does not need it to be kept away from his face. He combs through it with his fingers as he walks to the cupboard, and Gwaine watches it fall down his back. With a wave of his hand, he unlocks the door. “One last thing,” he reminds Gwaine.

The headdress is heavy and ornate; a thing made of magic and scales that hangs low over Merlin’s face and a beaded veil that trails behind him as he walks. Its horns are long and curled away from his face, decorated with rings and a chain hanging between them.

It fits him perfectly, and Gwaine is awed at the sight Merlin makes; regal and tall and fantastical, and  _ his. _

The sun dips below the horizon, and Merlin sighs as magic takes over, alighting the scales and turning his eyes into starlight. 

Gwaine steps to the side and holds out his arm. Merlin smiles softly, a shade lighter than midnight, and tucks his hand in the crook of his arm. “The moon is calling, lover mine,” he says softly, “And I would very much like to dance with you under her light.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And thank you Peach, always.
> 
> Based on Moth's prompt, _blue lipstick_.


End file.
